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Finding sleep is still near impossible for him most nights. A luxury he lost for weeks as the darkness took root in him, still just out of reach even now. Nightmares plague his mind regularly, startling him back awake with a low gasp and sweat beading along his brow. Thankful that his actions aren’t enough to wake the woman next to him, curled up on her side of the bed, inches still between them.
He and Emma may share a house and a bed most nights, but there is still a distance between them. Wounds that still need healing and events that refuse to fade into memories. Terrible deeds done, even worse words spoken, hearts broken. (He’s the guiltier party, the self-loathing always stronger in him.) It will be a long process, but neither of them have given up hope just yet. They might be afraid, feeling unworthy of their partner’s love, but both are aware that they simply cannot live without the other and refuse to do so.
Killian slips out of the bed, silent footsteps carrying him down the stairs, stopping in front of the beautiful telescope Emma bought for him. Before he remembered everything. Back when she continued to fight for them, always believing in what she was doing even when he had his doubts and pushed her away. When she still believed the man she loved was still there, buried beneath the Dark One. A hand runs along the length of the scope as he admires the object before bending just enough to see through the eye piece, hoping the view helps ease his mind.
It does, to an extent. The rythmic movement of the waves pulling in and out from the shore returns his heartbeat to a normal, slow one, but does little to settle his thoughts nor the remnants of his nightmare. Flashes of scenes; Emma’s tear stained face, the darkness consuming all of Storybrooke, Nimue getting her way and destroying the light, Emma disappearing as she is the embodiment of all that is good and pure and light. Fingers curl painfully around the cool brass as he tries to blink away his own tears, doing all he can to remind himself none of it was real. That Emma was upstairs, asleep in their bed, and very much alive.
Or she was. Light footsteps make their way closer to him, stopping some distance away. He can hear the slow exhale from Emma, almost like a sigh of relief. Of course. Most nights he stayed in bed after a nightmare, wide awake but still there. Rarely did he get up and leave, and doing so surely scared her. After losing him more times than anyone cares to count, the fleeting thought of him going missing again would put her in a panic. He can sense her desire to reach out and comfort him, and some part of him hopes she does. But, the parts of them that are terrified of pushing too far too soon, of doing something wrong, of breaking this weird balance sort of thing they’ve found themselves in, keeps them from providing and accepting such comforts they once reveled in.
Instead, she sits on the couch and he stays at the telescope, his grip slowly loosening into something gentle, his knuckles no longer white and sore. Thoughts slowly drift from his nightmare to happier memories. Of Henry greeting him in the Underworld with a bright smile and a hug most teenage boys would shy away from. Of Dave clasping him on the shoulder in something so reminisce of Liam that it nearly made him cry. Of Mary Margaret’s warm, motherly smiles and gentle hand to his cheek. Of Emma wrapped so tightly around him that he could swear they were one person in that moment.
Arms that he can feel around him now, tight around his waist. Somehow, he isn’t entirely sure how– or when, he’s moved from his spot at the window to the couch. With Emma and him curling around one another. Her head rests against his chest, his faced pressing against her neck, hand splaying across her back as he holds her tightly against him. It’s the closest they’ve been since returning from the Underworld and the walls they built between one another. He knows this is only temporary, that they’ll go back to their distances in the morning, but he needs this now. They both do. It’s the small glimmer of hope they need to remind them of what they’re fighting for.
They stay entwined in silence for a while, long enough for sleep to start slowly creeping back in. He thinks they should go back upstairs, knowing the morning will bring cramped muscles and kinked necks, and whispers as such into her hair.
She shakes her head and mumbles into his chest, “I’m good right here,” and he can’t find it in him to argue with her.
When morning does come, it’s not nearly as bad as he expects, cramps and kinks aside. A fleeting touch here, a soft smile there. Cracks in their wall appear, and each small moment chips away a little bit more.
They still have a long way to go, but hope starts from somewhere. For them, it’s a silent night on a cramped couch.